Through the toxic atmosphere,
   beneath the neon light of a pistachio moon,
         I see my lover's perfect, unkempt
hair, which ends in shapely scalpels

   at the nape of his immortal neck.
   I want to take him in my mouth, hold him
         by that nape as if he were a whelp; stand guard
around the case for that unrivaled instrument, his throat.

         He sings softly as he walks ahead of me
   (though not quietly) about the songs he'll sing
         to me come morning: something for the surfers
on the Gulf of Enez; a verse describing